


Unfinished stories that probably won't be finished

by FrogFacey



Category: My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: + a lot more that I'm too lazy to write down, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 21:03:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11586147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrogFacey/pseuds/FrogFacey
Summary: Stuff I've lost the inspiration for or have no ideas for that I don't have the heart to delete.(Some of the stuff might be continued at some point? But for now they will stay here)





	1. Quicent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turns out I actually hate this story now? I love the first chapter but hate everything else?

“Frank don’t.” 

Mikey put his hand on his hip, his coffee in his other hand. “You’re going to hurt yourself and I’m not calling the ambulance if something breaks.” 

“Relax Mikes.” Frank called from halfway up the wire fence, “I’m being careful.”

Frank wasn’t being careful.

His feet barely fit in the small diamonds the wire made and his hands were very close to being cut by the sharp ends near the top. 

He swore loudly as he lost footing momentarily, both feet dangling in the air, leaving him with only his hands to keep him from falling. 

“Told you.” Mikey wasn’t worried at all, more annoyed than anything. As Frank scrambled back to safety (which right now was the top of the fence) Mikey rolled his eyes and flipped open his phone. He was texting someone.

“Hey Mikey.” Frank called from the place he was sitting on top of the fence.  
“That can’t be strong enough to hold you dude.”  
“Well it’s not moving. I’d say we’re going well.”  
Frank moved slowly as he shuffled around to face the other direction. He craned his neck to look back at Mikey, “Dare me to jump?”  
“Dude no!”  
“I’m gonna do it.”

Frank’s legs gave in as he hit the ground, he landed with a loud crash and narrowly missed a collision with a pile of boxes. He rolled over and started laughing, the pain in his left leg somehow making him laugh harder. 

“Did you see that?” He said, or at least, tried to say. He was cut off mid sentence due to the fact that he had run out of air. He took a deep breath and tried to repeat himself, but he just started laughing again.

“Are you okay?” Mikey walked up to the fence and raised his eyebrow. He was still texting, his coffee was sitting on the ground, long forgotten and probably cold.

“No.” Frank wheezed, his laughing was now less laughter and more nasally squeaking. He heaved himself up and took a second to catch his breath, “Did you see that?”

“Yep. Do you see your keys?” Mikey leaned against the fence, still texting. Frank stood up and looked around, he saw some cardboard boxes and a bin. 

“Not yet.” He walked around in a circle, more to kill time than to actually look. 

There was no metallic glinting on the ground, no heavenly beam of light to guide the way and definitely no visible keys. 

Frank swore, he walked around in another circle, running his hands through his hair. He was out of ideas and he really didn’t want to keep Mikey waiting long. 

“Have you tried the boxes?” Mikey asked, still mostly preoccupied with his phone. 

“Why would they be near the boxes?”  
“Why do you think you’re keys are even in here?”

It was true, Frank was mostly just taking a wild guess, he had dropped his bag here before work so maybe they had fallen under the gate?

He was out of ideas.

“Okay, I’m calling Ma, you can like...Sleep on the couch or something.”

Frank whined, “But like...What if they’re here? What if I’m locked out of my house forever just because you don’t want me to behind this fence?”

“Frank. You’re trespassing. Come here, we’re driving you home.” 

Frank grumbled and walked back towards the fence, he went to go climb back up before Mikey interrupted him.

“Frank.” he said, pointing at the fence, “Frank pay attention.”

He let go to ask Mikey what the hell he was talking about, the one two many disturbances making the gate open.

“Fuck.” 

Mikey hummed in agreement.

 

They sat on the ground against the wall, amusing themselves by taking turns playing Snake on Mikey’s phone.

“When’s your Mum coming?” Frank asked when he was finally done with running his tiny snake into walls.

“Soon-ish. She said Gerard would be here asap because she doesn’t want us catching a cold.”  
“Like shit we’re going to catch a cold in this weather.”  
“She worries Frank.”

They waited for a while more, Frank suggested they play Fuck-Marry-Kill to pass the time but Mikey shut him up by kicking his coffee cup at him.

“Hacky-sack.” he said when Frank looked at him confused.  
“With a coffee cup?” He asked, his eyebrow raised.

They didn’t realise the car had pulled up until Mikey accidentally kicked the cup at it.

 

The car itself was the saddest thing Frank had ever seen. It looked like it may have been blue many years ago, but now it was so caked in dust that it was now a murky gray. There was a slightly less gray “clean me” written on the back door next to a smiley face.

Mikey waved and ran to shotgun, Frank trailed behind slightly slower and jumped into the middle seat.

There was McDonald's rubbish under the seats, stains on the ceiling and the car smelled like cigarette smoke. Frank decided that this was exactly what he imagined the Way Mobile to look like.

“Hey Gee.” Mikey said as he clipped in his seat belt.

“Hey.” Gerard waved and then looked back at Frank, furrowing his brow in confusion. “Who..?” he asked quietly, thinking hard. “Wait...Um...”

“Frank?” Frank offered after a few seconds of silence.

“Yes! Frank!” Gerard said happily, turning back to the steering wheel. “Home?” he asked.

“Home.” Mikey said.


	2. A Short History Of Nearly Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MORE AMANDA PALMER BASED ANGSTY RYDEN!

Ryan was in no way an artist. 

He was perfectly capable of twisting and shaping words, stringing together phrases and sentences to make an artwork of his own kind, but he couldn’t draw to save his life.

He’d tried, sure. He’d worked his fingers to the bone, hands covered in graphite and charcoal in order to get the piano just right.

The piano was something he’d been fascinated with for a quite a while, he’d seen glimpses of it occasionally when he was alone at the bar or when he was walking home late at night.

It seemed to him that he was more obsessed with the tattoo than the person himself.

Ryan still wanted to see it, to touch it. He wanted to pull this person’s sleeves up just to see if his drawings did it justice. He could never really be certain now.

 

Maybe it had started with the drink, the hello, the friendly tip of a hat that ended with him captivated instantly. A polite stranger with a polite sounding voice had offered him a drink and who was Ryan say no?

Maybe it was the guitar he played, the way he sang, the way he wrote his lyrics. It was hard for Ryan to remember now. This polite stranger had left the bar counter and had stepped up to the stool with the microphone and sang poetry of his very own.

Or maybe it was because of the piano tattoo, the one that caught his eye from underneath the polite stranger’s sleeve. The piano tattoo that he’d been focused on since the very first time they met.

 

His name was Brendon, he loved music almost as much as he hated himself. It was the things he was saying about his current position that had gotten to Ryan, about how he wanted to run away, how he needed to start over. It made him want to help him, offer a place to run to.

 

They had talked for hours, Brendon about his guitar and his home and Ryan about his poetry and about Spencer. 

Spencer, who’d done the same for him when he needed to run away.

There was some stumbling as they took the subway home, still talking and slurring like old friends. They’d nearly missed their stop because Brendon couldn’t quite remember the name and Ryan didn’t want him to leave.

 

The next time Ryan saw Brendon was the following week, they’d stumbled across each other in the library. He wasn’t doing much aside from looking through the romance novels, running his fingers across the spines as he strode through the isle.

Ryan wanted to ask him about it, if he’d read any of them, if he even liked them. Instead he asked if he remembered him.

Brendon’s eyes had widened at his words, he had looked him up and down slightly and shrugged, “Vaguely?”

“Ryan.” He’d said, wanting to reach out and shake his hand, he would have if his books hadn’t been in the way. Looking back he was kind of happy he didn’t, maybe it would have been more awkward if he had.

“The poet?” Brendon had asked, apparently very interested in one of the books. Judging by the cover, Ryan guessed it was sex, thinly veiled in what could barely be called a plot.

“The very one.” He had smiled, but Brendon didn’t seem to be very interested in him and Ryan had the sudden fear that he was being irritating.

They never finished the conversation.

 

Ryan saw Brendon again nearly a month later, they’d been waiting at the subway and Brendon had been the one to get his attention first. 

“Ryan! The poet!” He’d yelled, frantically. He’d grabbed Ryan’s shoulders, Ryan had jumped.

“That’s...That’s me.” He said, confused. 

Brendon shook his shoulders, once, twice and said “Ride the train with me? Please?”

He was almost begging, Ryan couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for him, “Why?”

“Because my Mum’s here and she won’t say anything if she thinks I’m busy.”

And that was all it took for Ryan to agree.

They were silent for almost the entire ride, Brendon fiddled with his hands and Ryan stared at his piano tattoo.

“Thank you.” Brendon said as he got off, Ryan had offered to come with him, but Brendon had shushed him and reassured him that everything was alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I had an image in my head, for whatever reason, of an astronaut’s wife, waiting on a beach for her husband’s return, only to watch as his body parts landed on the beach in front of her.
> 
> but at least she’d have something – some reminder.
> 
> I had almost nothing. I had a single page in my journal with a fantastic sketch of the back of an arm that i drew at a picnic by the river."
> 
> -Amanda Palmer


	3. Frerard flapper au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because I like flapper slang and wanted to write Flapper!Gerard and Douchebag!Frank

The first time Frank met Gerard, he despised them. He didn’t know what he hated more, Gerard’s dress, or the fact that they could pull off said dress better than any of the drunken girls he could see around.

Gerard was adorned in second hand beads, an expensive looking cigarette stuffed into an expensive looking cigarette holder held with dainty looking hands. Classy looking men were by both their sides, all of them simply entranced by their sharp tongue and sweet Jersey accent.

Despite all of the smoke, murmuring, booze and dancing, Gerard looked bored. They blew some loose black curls out of their face and looked around, ignoring one of the men trying to get their attention.

Frank and Gerard made eye contact.  
Gerard smirked, Frank scowled.

As Gerard walked over, they shooed away the arms linked around theirs.

Frank focused his gaze on the smooth wood of the table as Gerard pulled out a chair and made themselves comfortable, one delicate hand gently flicking the end of the cigarette holder.

“Scram flapper.” Frank growled, making dangerous eye contact with Gerard. “You’re drunk.”

Gerard just smiled, “Haven’t touched the stuff in years.”

Frank rolled his eyes, “Go back to your little ‘friends.’”

Gerard took another puff of their cigarette

“But they’re no fun.” they whined, sliding their hands across the table, “C’mon! Have some fun with me?”

Frank scowled again, “Why?”

Gerard flicked the cigarette before taking another puff, “Because you’re interesting.”

“Beat it.”

Another flick, another puff.

“C’mon. Please?”

Frank rolled his eyes again, “No.”

Gerard sighed and went to stand up, “Fine. Want some hooch?”  
“Excuse me?”  
They giggled, it was a nasally noise that rang through the entire joint.  
“Booze you silly.”

Frank sighed, “Fine.” and watched Gerard walk back towards the bar, one of the men from before complaining about them leaving him.

Frank kept his eyes on the table, how Gerard, whose clothes, jewelry and accessories were all clearly second -possibly third- hand, could afford a drink in this place was completely lost to him.   
Frank couldn’t even afford the cigarettes some rich kid was selling by the door. Everything in this place was too expensive for his taste.

Expensive things, expensive furniture, expensive people.  
Expensive things his mother had probably never even seen in her lifetime.

Gerard came back, a cool glass held in one of their hands. 

They sat down, sliding the glass over the table towards Frank, “You best be happy. Used the last of my jack to get that.”

Frank was lost again, it must of shown because Gerard was laughing.

“You really don’t know what that means?”  
Frank shook his head.  
“My god you really are hopeless. C’mon.”

Gerard grabbed his hand and yanked him up, “Finish it on the way!” they called as they skipped across the bar, making their way towards the back door.

Frank stumbled after them, almost dropping his drink on multiple occasions and getting run into others more times then he could count.

How Gerard did it without getting knocked over, he didn’t know.

 

Outside was cold and the steps weren’t much better, but Gerard insisted on sitting there, so there Frank was, ass on cold concrete, one hand held tightly around Gerard’s arm to keep them from falling off the side of the narrow steps.

“So!” They said, clapping their hands together. “Tell me, what do you think of this juice joint?”

Frank furrowed his brow and thought for a second, “Does that mean bar?”

“Yep!” They grinned.

Frank nodded, going back to his whiskey, “It’s nice, but pretty damn expensive.”

Gerard nodded, “It was Ma’s favourite, Mikey’s too. Mikey’s my brother by the way, he’s real flashy.”

Frank nodded, somewhat confused as to why this random guy was now spurting their life story to him. 

“Okay, what about...Sheik. You’re pretty sheik. You know what that means?” Gerard moved so that they were sitting on the step below Frank, looking up at him.

Frank chuckled, “Does it mean boring and somewhat ugly?”

Gerard grinned, “Quite the opposite.”

 

They talked for a while more, Frank’s empty whiskey glass laying forgotten beside him. Gerard was nice, confusing and somewhat annoying at times, but nice. 

Frank sighed, “Got any more cigarettes?” he asked as Gerard finished theirs, picking at the ashes caught in the end of the holder.

They hummed in response, “You know how to say that the ‘flapper way?’”  
“No, how?”  
“Butt me.”

Frank chuckled, “Alright. Butt me.”

Gerard grinned and fished around in their bag, sticking the cigarette holder back between their teeth as they searched.

“Here you go.” They handed Frank the box and Frank pulled out the least squashed one, handing the box back to Gerard.

 

They sat in silence for a moment more, mostly just looking at each other and talking through cigarettes. Gerard moved so that they were crouching in a way that Frank was sure would annoy some upperclass girls.

They rested their head in their hand, looking bored. 

_(Blah blah shit happens, Gerard does Gerard and Frank is a douche)_

“I’m not going to kiss you, I don’t even know your name!”

To this, Gerard thrust out their hand, catching Frank off guard, “Way. Gerard Way. You can call me Gee!”

Frank shook their hand slowly, “Frank. Frank Iero.”

Gee smiled even wider, “How do you do Iero?”  
“Frank.”  
“Frank. How do you do?”

Frank blinked for a second, “Did you really just introduce yourself so you could kiss me.”  
“Maybe. Depends on if I can or not.”  
“No! Maybe. Maybe later.”


End file.
